


gospel song

by peleliu



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peleliu/pseuds/peleliu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's fingers flexed around his wrist, pressure where his pulse raced, and in his deliberation, Corvo burned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gospel song

**Author's Note:**

> i write weird shit when i am upset i'm not even sorry  
> this is flagrant abuse of abbey property, mister high overseer

   Piero had occupied his morning. Upgrades for his gear, the engineer had said. Adjustments, improvements. Corvo technically needn't have been there for the process but he knew how Piero was, finicky and proud, and he had nothing but time until the next problem - target - disaster presented itself. So he watched Piero work, let Piero work around him, listened to the man's muttering and complaints. Accepted his gear when the work was done, accepted the explanation of every change, and then accepted Piero's dismissal. It was not unkind. Corvo turned to go. 

   "Ah," Piero had noised then, half distracted already as he was by another project, "and Martin wanted to see you, whatever reason he has. Up in Havelock's office, I think, playing at owning the place whenever the Admiral isn't around..."

   And that was that. Corvo worked while he walked, strapping belts back into place, tightening buckles, returning all of his weapons and gadgets to their rightful spots. Up the stairs that creaked under his boots, down hallways, muffled and quiet. The loudspeakers outside remained blessedly silent, and he exhaled, long and measured, just to hear himself breathe as he lifted his hand to rap knuckles against Martin's door, in the same motion taking the knob in hand to let himself in. He'd been expected, after all.

   It wasn't two steps into the room that it hit him. In the face, the chest, the pit of his stomach. In the space behind his eyes that bled the edges of his vision of any color but red. In his bones, rooting his feet to the floor against the reflexive lurch of retreat.

   "Corvo," Martin greeted, cheerful where he stood leaning with hands on Havelock's desk, and his voice warred with the rattle of breath trapped in Corvo's chest and with the tortured wail that dug spikes of agony into Corvo's skull. "That was fast. I'd have thought Piero would keep you as a captive audience a bit longer. Come in, won't you?"

   Corvo barely heard him, casting about the room and choking on distress, because he couldn't see it. The music box, and there had to be a music box -- glass shards in his skin and razors between his teeth -- but he couldn't _see it_.

   "Something the matter?" Martin asked, so casual with his brow lifted as he straightened from the desk. He stepped forward and Corvo tried to move his feet, to backtrack. The door was open. He needed to move, to get away, to shut out that noise, but Martin was crossing the room to him as if there was nothing wrong and every inch of Corvo felt trapped by the air pressing in on him.

   "You don't look well," Martin said, and he was close, an arm's length away. Corvo wished for space, panic and agony twisting in his chest as if his ribs might snap and unfold. He tried for the door, jerking and twitching, and Martin noised a sound of concern. Reached past him. Shut the door.

   Turned the lock.

   Corvo thought he might be sick.

   "Here," said Martin, and then his hand was at Corvo's elbow, pulling with hardly any force but still enough to uproot Corvo, to stagger him, to draw him further into the room. "Let's get you sat down. Some water, perhaps."

   The world spun in shades of pain and red and Corvo's knees tried to buckle but Martin kept him upright, steering him on useless legs to the edge of Havelock's bed, and Corvo couldn't be sure if the floor was listing beneath his feet or if the taste of blood in his mouth was real.

   "There. Better?"

   Martin's voice came from somewhere beyond the razor wire hail inside of his head and Corvo looked up, trying to breathe, trying to ward off the pressure and pulse that threatened to crush his heart inside of his chest. He was pushing at Martin and there were hands on his shoulders, and he only realized he was seated when the world levied upright again.

   Martin sighed, deliberate and audible, his hands a gentle squeeze where he would not release Corvo's shoulders. "I had my suspicions, you know," he said at length. "That mark on your hand just confirmed it." He looked down and Corvo fought to keep his eyes focused, hands spasming somewhere in the space between them, grasping at air, at notes that threatened to strip flesh from bone and leave him bloodless. "I think we've needed to talk for a while, you and I."

   Corvo's throat worked, dry and painful, swallowing against the strangling knot that made it hard to breathe. Speaking was impossible but he made some kind of sound, must have, because Martin's mouth tightened and then he was being moved, guided back. His protests were nothing but rasping breath and futilely clawing hands; Martin settled him with his back to the headboard, pillows beneath him leaving him half reclining. It took him so long to regain some semblance of equilibrium that he didn't see Martin stand, didn't see him move away from the bed. He didn't try to get up.

   Above him, the ceiling warped with his pulse, the steady _thump-thump_ that thundered in his temples, threatened to break bone apart. He lifted his hands, grabbed at his head, dug the heels of his hands into his temples and squeezed to hold his skull together.

   The mattress dipped at his side. Corvo's eyes opened - when had he closed them? - to Martin taking hold of his wrist, lowering his arm, drawing his attention to what Martin held, what he had brought back.

   Corvo tasted copper and ash, and Martin offered him water.

   "I know it hurts," Martin was saying, and his hand was steady as he held the glass, braced Corvo against the headboard. "I've seen them used before. I've used them before. Not quite like this, mind you." Cool pressure against his lips and Corvo nearly turned his head away, fumbled for and took hold of Martin's arm. "It will help," Martin said, and Corvo didn't voice his sob, just shut his eyes and drank, and the water was cool, so much better than the choking grit of his throat, almost enough to wash away the taste of blood.   

   "I just wanted to be sure," Martin went on, and Corvo counted heartbeats, counted breaths. "We're friends here, of course. Beyond the... sight of the Abbey. I can overlook this sort of indiscretion."

   Corvo wondered if he heard the "for now" attached to the end of that or if he was beginning to hallucinate. The glass was empty, taken away, and he did not reach for it though he wished dearly for more.

   "Desperate times," Martin said, setting the glass aside, and he sounded distant, distracted. When he looked back again Corvo found it difficult to bring his face into focus. He'd never been exposed to one of the Overseer's devices for this long before. Had never allowed himself to be. He felt brittle and ill, hollow in a way he couldn't decipher. His hands twitched at his sides and Martin looked down, drawn by the movement.

   Martin turned then, reached across him, reached for his marked hand where it lay useless at his side, and Corvo's breath hitched. An instant of hesitation; Martin looked at him, met his gaze and held it, and Corvo tried through the fog and pain to decipher intent. But there was nothing for him there. So carefully unreadable Martin looked aside again, leaving Corvo lost and reeling. The fingers that closed around his wrist were firm and careful, drawing his arm up and across his middle, and it took everything Corvo had to stifle the attempt to pull away.

   "How long, I wonder, have you borne His mark?" Martin didn't look up as he spoke, let the question hang between them. Held Corvo's hand between his own and carefully did not touch the jagged black lines that cut across his skin. "How long had He been watching?"

   Something like fear rippled in the back of Corvo's mind, beneath the paralysis and agony. Martin sounded hollow, detached in a way that made Corvo's skin crawl. The hand around his wrist tightened by degrees when his fingers twitched involuntarily, warm leather as much a shackle as any metal he'd ever worn.

   And still Martin did not look up, did not end his scrutiny. Corvo wondered if the music might not kill him before Martin had satisfied whatever curiosity had driven him to this, had found answers to whatever questions had led them to this point. Surely he couldn't stay this way for much longer, couldn't keep listening to his blood rush in his head, to the shrieking agony that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

   Martin's fingers flexed around his wrist, pressure where his pulse raced, and in his deliberation, Corvo burned.

   "What made you worth--" Martin's teeth clicked, catching, and he exhaled so loudly it verged on a hiss. "What is it about you that drew His attention?" More calm, but the edge in his voice was like a knife. Corvo's vision swam but he didn't close his eyes, didn't dare, not now. Martin's grip on his wrist had turned into a vise, bones aching, another pain compounding on top of many. But he didn't close his eyes.

   Martin's jaw worked, teeth grinding through his silence, and when he finally moved it was to catch the finger of his glove between his teeth and strip it from his free hand. Corvo's arm jerked uselessly as Martin reached for him, every line of him stiff, moving like a levy breaking, like an attack.

   When Martin's fingers rasped over the mark, nothing happened, and Corvo shuddered so hard his breath caught in his throat.

   Just like that Martin's grip was gone and he was off the bed, pulling his glove back on with quick, jerky motions. He stepped away, one, two paces, shoulders stiff and back straight.

   "You saved me once," Martin said, looking at Corvo while Corvo looked through him, through the haze and fractured light, through pain that was not all his. "From the stocks, from execution." He walked with violence, vicious steps across the room, and when he pried Havelock's desk open the hinges of the compartment door creaked and snapped.   

   The music box shone dull gold in the poor light, and Corvo recoiled, pressing weakly back into the headboard. Martin held the horrific thing as if it were made of glass, as if it might come apart in his hands. He carried it like a precious thing, carried it from the desk, across the room, quick and careful. Then he pried the window open, took hold of the music box by the automated crank that lurched as it tried to spin, and he threw the thing out into the empty air. It caught the light, and glinted, and fell, and Corvo heard it up until it hit the street storeys down, until it smashed to pieces and littered the cobbles with brass and wood.

   Corvo was left gasping, the sudden silence a lance through his skull. Finally able to breathe, to pull air into his aching lungs, he felt light-headed and disoriented, broken and patched back together, scarcely solid.

   Martin shut the window carefully, stood there with his back to Corvo, staring at his reflection in the glass, at the street beyond, the grey sky and distant smog. When he moved he was himself again, composed, calm. He turned his back on the window, looked at Corvo, a brief meeting of eyes; his shadowed, Corvo's glassy and unfocused but ever watchful. Martin looked away first, toward the door, toward an end to this, and when he spoke his voice was low beneath the pitched whine in Corvo's ears;      
  
   “I wonder if you can still be saved?”

   Then he was gone. Corvo was left in true silence, left alone, left to gather up all the little pieces of himself and put them back together again. And when he could move again, when the world stopped tilting and his eyes would focus, when he'd wiped the blood from beneath his nose and stumbled from the room, he found he still had no answer for that question.


End file.
